


flightless bird, sightless mouth

by isawet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-01-18 02:38:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12379161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: Collection of (very short) one-shots from tumblr, for archiving purposes. Not connected.





	1. pistols at dawn (a duel)

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa fights a duel for Clarke's honor. canonverse, fluffy, est relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

“So how many to the death gladiator fights can I expect in our first year of marriage?” Clarke strides into the room and Lexa sighs deeply, leaned over her war table. “Just a rough estimate.”

“You’ve seen me fight,” Lexa reminds her, almost absent-minded. She shuffles through a sheaf of maps. She pauses. “What’s a gladiator?”

“Nevermind the gladiators. Can’t you just banish this idiot?”

“He has gathered a significant following.” Lexa turns, holding a few papers in one hand. With the other, she tugs Clarke close for a soft easy kiss. “If he concedes, I won’t need to kill him.”

Clarke pulls away to sigh heavy. “This is because of me.”

“Yes.” 

Clarke socks her shoulder.

“You’re supposed to lie and say it’s not my fault.”

Lexa disengages and crosses to where her armor is laid out, the same Clarke saw her fight Roan in. “I would not dare to insult your intelligence such.”

Clarke _hhmphs_. “Sweet talker.” She steps close to help cinch the ties, bends to lace Lexa’s boots. The leather gleams, freshly oiled. “I thought there had to be a vote or something.”

“If he were challenging me as Heda. I’m afraid he’s smart enough to exploit a different loophole in my laws.”

“Our laws,” Clarke reminds her. “Is it true he’s officially asking for my hand?”

Lexa’s lips tug upwards. “You are… a catch.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’m ever so glad you and Raven have mended fences.” She picks up Lexa’s sword and hefts it, grimacing lightly. “I don’t like this.”

Lexa steps close, her hand over Clarke’s on her sword. “How different and exhilarating.”

It startles a snort of laughter from Clarke. “Sassy. you’re lucky I like you so much.”

Lexa kisses her, sweet. “And I you.”

++

“This is your fault,” Indra says. 

“Yes, thank you, your constant and never changing opinion has been noted. Is Lexa ready for me?”

Indra glowers. “Yes.”

++

The crowd is large and already roaring. The noise ratchets up when Clarke steps into the fighting ring. Lexa is standing, loose limbed and relaxed, her hair braided back except for a few wavy errant locks in the front. “Clarke kom Skaikru,” she greets.

Clarke dips on one knee. “Heda.”

“Not Heda,” Lexa murmurs, just for her ears. “Not for you. Not now.” She tugs Clarke up and presses a pot of paint into her hand. When she kneels the crowd goes silent. Indra stands at Lexa’s elbow, holding her sword. 

“Um,” Clarke mumbles from the corner of her mouth. “Lexa?”

“I’m not fighting as heda,” Lexa murmurs. “I'm fighting, officially, to prove my worthiness as your lovematch.”

Clarke makes her mark across Lexa’s face, her palm on Lexa’s jaw and the drag of her fingers across Lexa’s forehead, her eyes, the bridge of her nose. 

Indra looks physically pained. “Your hair,” she hisses.

Clarke jerks, caught in Lexa’s fierce gaze, the brightness of her eyes. “Right. Yes.” she fumbles pulling the knife from her belt, cutting a small fistful of her hair off and braiding it into Lexa’s, tucking it away, staining part of it black with the paint still on her hands. “Okay?”

Lexa stands. “Very much so.” She takes Clarke’s hand in hers. “The maps on my table are current troop estimates. They are for Aden, in the event of my death.”

“You’re ruining the moment,” Clarke tells her. Lexa’s face creases in a smile, sudden and joyous. 

“I'll see you soon,” Clarke says, forcing her voice not to rise in a question.

Lexa kisses the back of her hand. “Momentarily.”

++

Lexa hefts her sword up and the crowd screams. She makes it all the way back to her tent, Clarke dogging her heels, before she sags into a chair. she brings her hand away from her side, dripping blood. “A lucky hit,” she mutters.

“You’ve never seen me fight,” Clarke mimics, voice pitched high and mocking as she gathers warm water and her bag.

“I don’t sound like that.” Clarke cuts her a look and Lexa looks–well. as sheepish as Clarke thinks she’s capable of looking. 

“Take off your top.”

“No.”

“ _No?_ ”

“I believe there will be one more challenge. Now, while I am weak. I’d prefer not to meet it in my underclothes.”

Clarke huffs. she strides to the front of the tent. “I'll call Indra to run interference. You need stitches–” she’s cut off by a man striding in, bristling with knives in the grounder way. 

“Heda,” he announces, casting Clarke a dismissive look, “Leksa kom Trikru, I challenge your fitness for Clarke kom–”

Clarke kicks him in the junk. hard. His eyes roll back in his head and he makes a squeaking noise before toppling like a tree. Clarke kicks him again. Lexa makes a surprised, pleased noise. She comes next to Clarke and they peer down at him. “Do you know him?”

“No,” Lexa says. She pauses. “Tren, maybe? Perhaps Tualk.”

“He needs medical attention. It’s likely he’ll lose a testicle.” Lexa looks blank. “You know…” Clarke makes a gesture. 

“Ah.” Lexa leans out the tent and barks a few sharp orders. Tren or perhaps Tualk is dragged away, groaning weakly. 

Clarke tugs her back in and secures the flap. “Stitches. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	2. 'you died'

Clarke wakes up in Polis. On the bed of furs she only barely remembers, but she opens her eyes and it’s crystal clear in a way it’s never been, in her faded memories. She sits up. The candles flickering, the sun slanting through the window, the linens under her fingers and her bare feet. She stands, toes in the thick plush rug, and inhales--sense memory hits her like a train and she sways, affected.

“You’re awake,” Lexa says, from the couch, and it makes Clarke sway again, knees gone suddenly weak.

“Lexa,” she gasps, like a gut punch, her hands pressing to her belly. “L-Lexa?”

“Yes,” Lexa agrees. “Me.” She’s sitting on the couch, knees tucked up, hair down, face bare. She smiles. “Sit with me?”

Clarke crosses the floor between them, but doesn’t sit. Reaches out a hand and stops just short of Lexa’s cheek, looking down at her. “You look--” Alive. Crisp and three dimensional and Clarke had--god. She’s forgotten the cut of Lexa’s jaw and the fine lines around her eyes, the way her lips move when she talks, the little wisps of curly hair that escape her braids. 

“You look,” Lexa echoes. Her eyes are quiet, almost sad. “Older.”

Clarke inhales, sharp. She’d forgotten how young Lexa had been--or maybe she’d never known, so young herself when-- “You died.”

“I did,” Lexa agrees. “I have. The Commander always dies, Clarke.”

The way Lexa says her name. Clarke curls in on herself, half collapsing; Lexa rises and eases her down into the couch, into her arms. Clarke tucks her face into Lexa’s neck and breathes deep. “Am I dead?” Her voice trembles, caught between fear and longing. She’s not sure what answer she hopes to hear.

Lexa takes her hand, turning it palm up. She traces a finger down Clarke’s wrist, along the vein. “Not quite here,” she murmurs, “not quite there. But there’s a little bit of _natblida_ in you, isn’t there?”

“Will I wake up?”

Lexa’s fingers on her jaw, tipping it up. “Eventually. Everything ends, in time.”

“I miss you,” Clarke whispers, eyes stubbornly closed. “I have missed you.”

Lexa kisses her, soft and coaxing. “And I, you.”

Clarke opens her eyes. “I have a daughter.”

Lexa’s smile--the one she got to see only once, full and vibrantly happy (she remembers, the morning it happened, what it was like to wake up and see Lexa smiling and naked beside her)--it blooms slow and easy, effortlessly joyful. “And?”

 _And I wonder if you were ever so young and full of hope_ , Clarke thinks. _I remember when I was_. “Her name is Madi. She is… everything.”

“As it should be.” She turns in Lexa’s embrace, her back to Lexa’s front, their feet propped up, hands tangled. “Tell me about her,” Lexa murmurs, against the curve of Clarke’s ear. “Tell me about the life you’ve lived without me.”

Clarke kisses Lexa’s palms, one and then the other. She thinks Lexa will enjoy the story of how Clarke learned trigedasleng.


	3. 'take it', sickfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'take it', sickfic, modern au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

“I’m not sick,” Lexa says, from under the duvet. Her hair peeks out the top, her voice muffled and thick with congestion. “I’m taking a mental health day, that’s all. Gonna get caught up on my housework.”

“Your housework,” Clarke repeats, her tone overflowing with dubiousness. 

Lexa tries to swallow a sneeze and fails. “It’s not like you’re gonna do it,” she accuses, still burrito rolled into the comforter. She coughs four times in a row and badly smothers a groan.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Okay, you big fat liar. Time to get up.”

Lexa burrows deeper, more of her hair disappearing. “No!”

Clarke props her hands on her hips. “Why? If you’re not sick you could get up right now, no problem. Prove you’re not sick.”

The lump that is Lexa pauses its wiggling. “I’m sleeping in,” she tries, weakly.

Clarke snorts. She pokes at the lump, vicious, until Lexa yelps. “Get up!”

Lexa growls, less deadly and more weak kitten. It kicks off another round of coughing. Clarke grabs the edge of the duvet and hauls, ripping it halfway off before Lexa pops up like a jack in the box and latches on with a deathgrip. “Clarke!”

“Get up! You need shower and fluids and medicine.”

Lexa heaves at the comforter. “No I don’t! I’m not sick!”

“Liar,” Clarke hisses, and falls on her ass when Lexa abruptly lets go. “Ow, Lexa, Jesus Christ.” She sits up with a groan, her ire fading away as she gets a good look at Lexa. Red nose and pale and sweaty, misery etched into her face and coughs that wrack her whole chest.

Lexa sniffles and wipes at her runny nose with her wrist. “I feel great.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Can you feel great in the shower?”

Lexa frowns. “Maybe.”

Clarke sighs. “You’ll feel better,” she tempts. “Nice hot shower, long as you like? And when you get out I’ll have made you something to eat.”

Lexa considers her offer. “I want soup.”

Clarke nods, very serious. “The food of the vigorously healthy.”

Lexa glares. “I want greek lemon soup. From the place on the corner.”

“You drive a hard bargain. I accept.”

++

When Clarke returns Lexa is sitting on the hallway rug. “I’m testing it,” she tries, when Clarke raises an eyebrow. She sighs and holds a hand up. “I got dizzy.”

“I’ve got you,” Clarke says, and helps her over to the couch.

“Soup?” Lexa asks, hesitantly hopeful.

“Mmhmm. And something else.”

Lexa perks up. “A present?”

Clarke produces a package of extra strength cold and flu medication. “Ta-da!”

Lexa glowers. “I hate you.”

“Shut up and take it,” Clarke says. “I’m not above sitting on you, you know I’m not.”

“Fine,” Lexa mutters. “But we’re watching what I want to watch. And I want to watch documentaries about how clocks are made.”

Clarke groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	4. 'don't cry, baby"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "don't cry, baby" canonverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

Clarke finds Lexa in her throne room, alone, staring into the middle distance. “Ambassador,” she greets, absently. “Something you need?”

“I thought maybe something you do.”

“You thought wrong.” Lexa’s voice is flat, somehow furious and completely devoid of emotion at the same time.

“My mistake, Commander.” She bites at the title, letting Lexa know she’s not fooled.

Lexa flinches. She sighs, sits up from her purposeful slouch. “Clarke,” she adjusts, tone softer. “I’m sorry. Did you come to speak with me?”

“I heard,” Clarke says, treading delicately, “about Wintaum. I thought maybe you’d like to talk about it.”

Lexa’s face goes stormy again. “Why would I? It was just a horse. I’ve had many.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees, like Lexa isn’t sulking in her throne room with enough fury rolling off her she’s cleared the rooms on either side as well as this one. “It--her name meant winter, right?”

“Yes,” Lexa allows, the affirmation dragging out of her throat. “She was--Anya named her, before.”

“Anya named her,” Clarke says, a little bit of clarity starting to come through. She blunders on, feeling in the dark and trying not to set off any landmines. “Anya gave her to you?”

“No. She was Anya’s. I only rode her after.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. She hesitates. “Lexa, I--”

Lexa stands, abrupt, cutting her off. “I have duties I’ve neglected.”

Clarke sighs again. “Of course.”

Lexa pauses, just as she passes Clarke. Touches her elbow, carefully soft. “We’ll speak at dinner?”

Clarke smiles. “I’d like that.”

++

They eat together most nights. Breakfast every morning, even when Clarke has to get up before the sun does, yawning at the table and fighting not to fall asleep in her plate until Lexa kisses her cheek and ushers her back to bed before leaving. And dinner, most nights.

Tonight it’s almost sandwiches, root vegetables chopped up fine and mixed into a dull green spread, studded with chunks of meat and slathered over fresh baked bread. Clarke vents about Titus for the first two minutes, then furiously stuffs her mouth for another two, chewing aggressively and glowering while Lexa makes commiserating noises and poorly hides her amusement. 

“About earlier,” Clarke broaches, and Lexa’s smile fades swiftly.

“I’d rather not,” she sidesteps. “It--I was affected, emotionally. But these things pass.” She takes a deep breath. “You’re here,” she says, quiet and keeping Clarke’s gaze. “That’s more than I’d thought I would ever get.”

Clarke wipes her mouth and pushes her plate aside. “Take me to bed?”

Lexa smiles. Her chair legs drag when she stands.

++

Clarke wakes up because Lexa’s crying. Her back to Clarke, curled up into a ball, the shape of her just barely visible in the dark. Clarke tries to shake herself into awareness. “Lex?” she mumbles, flailing an awkward arm out, her voice rasping out on the second syllable of Lexa’s name. “Don’t cry, baby.”

“I’m not crying,” Lexa mutters, obviously crying. Her chest stutters when she breathes, but she doesn’t resist when Clarke tugs her into an embrace. “Anya was--is. Important to me.” Lexa takes a single ragged breath, her tears subsiding. She relaxes into Clarke’s hold. “I miss her,” she whispers, like a secret.

Clarke kisses the top of her, noses behind her ear. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	5. nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke has trouble sleeping after Lexa is shot. Canonverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

It’s worse when Clarke’s not in Polis. Worst when Clarke is alone among the Ark, in the room her mother sets aside for her. It’s too closed in now, even after a long childhood of being in nothing but tight spaces. Being among the Ark people is too closed, now that she knows what it feels like to sleep under the stars, to feel grass between her toes. Now that she’s seen oceans and beaches and forests. Now that she knows Lexa. 

The nightmares get worse when she can’t wake with a jolt and smell Lexa on the furs or the calming gentle scent of grounder candles. Can’t see out the big open windows Polis has and feel the night air on her sweatslick neck. Most of the time she just gets up. They took her help with some of the manual labours, fence building and the like, until her mother sent out an order.

Now she walks outside. It helps, a little, to see the stars and the moon and the clouds.

++

Clarke wakes with a strangled shout, sitting straight up and dropping her head in her palms. she shudders.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, still reclined, voice sleep rough. “Alright?”

“Yeah. A dream.”

“I'm here.” Lexa starts to sit up and Clarke shakes her head. she nudges Lexa back down.   
“Let me?”

“Of course,” Lexa murmurs. “As you like, niron.”

“Hodness,” Clarke says, accent harsh enough it makes Lexa’s lips twitch. She tugs the furs down and careful eases Lexa’s shirt up. She lays her hand over the scar, puckered and still painful looking, a little shiny with the ointment Lexa uses to dull the pain on cold days. Clarke dips her head and inhales–Lexa’s skin, lingering leather sweat of her armor, the sharp tang of the medicinal leaves. She kisses just above it. 

“Come here,” Lexa says, and lets Clarke contort them until she can lie with her ear above Lexa’s chest, to hear her heartbeat thump strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	6. hs au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's dad dies, hsau, modern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

Clarke calls Lexa in the funeral home. Her mother is talking about which her dad might like and the director is talking about fabric linings and gentle pillows and putting him to rest and she goes to the bathroom to lock herself in the single stall and hold her phone to her ear with shaky fingers. 

Lexa picks up on the first ring. “Clarke.” Her voice is calm and measured and as always, curls around Clarke’s name with soft gentle affection and regard. 

Clarke swallows. “My dad died,” she says, almost whispered. Lexa is quiet, the phone just barely picking up on her breathing. “Lexa,” Clarke repeats, and her voice cracks, “my dad died.”

“I know,” Lexa says, and stays with her while she stuffs a fist half into her mouth and shakes and fights each sob as it comes out and loses.

//

Clarke balls up in her bed and feels hollowed out, crying leaving her red eyed and snotty. She hears the doorbell and listens to the sound of the front door opening and the muffled sounds of her mother’s voice with a detached curiosity–the relatives are supposed to start coming in tomorrow, and her mother’s friends have come and gone, the neighbours leaving a casserole neither of the them had the heart to eat.

Her door opens and she recognizes Lexa’s smell, her footstep, the force of her presence. She doesn’t bother to roll over, her back to the door, and the mattress dips as Lexa crawls beside her. A hand lands on her back, hesitant. “Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke rolls over to shove herself into Lexa’s lap and she everytime she thinks her tears have run dry she proves herself wrong. 

Lexa holds her and fixes her hair so it’s not tangled in Clarke’s face. She rubs Clarke’s back and holds the tissue for her and sighs when she sees the pile of them on the floor because she’s told Clarke a hundred times to just keep a trashcan by the bed and Clarke always promises she will. By the time Clarke has settled Lexa is leaned against the headboard with Clarke tucked into her lap and in the loose circle of her arms and Lexa is reading to her from one of the many old books Lexa carts around and insists is necessary for self-edification. 

“Somebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his trouble, and might have cheered him. But nobody did come, because nobody does, and–”

“What the fuck,” Clarke croaks. She wipes her nose on the thigh seam of Lexa’s jeans and peeks up at Lexa through her hair. “What the fuck is that?”

Lexa peers at her. She drags a fingerpad, gentle, under Clarke’s eye to carry the last of her tears away. “it’s Thomas Hardy, Clarke. It’s a classic.”

“It’s depressing. Do you really–Is this you being cheery?”

“Hum drum,” Lexa intones, and Clarke smiles before she remembers and her face crumples again. “Clarke,” Lexa murmurs again, and Clarke buries her face into Lexa’s chest and clutches at her arms and struggles to control her breathing. 

“Sorry,” she says, between awful wracking breaths that make her chest hurt and her throat burn. “I’m sorry.”

Lexa slides down and turns them so she can spoon Clarke and tug the blanket over them. “Shh,” she says, and presses a kiss to Clarke’s temple, the hair damp from crying. “Time brings all things to pass.”

Clarke snorts. “I know that. That’s Tolkien, you fucking nerd.”

She can feel Lexa sigh. “It’s Aeschylus, Clarke. We have a quiz on the three great tragedians next week.”

“Nerd,” Clarke says. Lexa’s hand presses against her sternum and Clarke can feel Lexa’s chest expand against her back. She matches her breathing to Lexa’s and is able to take her first deep breathe in three days. It feels like a loss, to be able to breathe. A betrayal. She makes a noise, grief struck and lost, and Lexa’s arms tighten around her. 

“I know,” she promises. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	7. soulmark au, modern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'the first words your soulmate says to you as a tattoo" au, set in modern verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed

Lexa’s Coming In makes her violently ill. hunched over the toilet and retching weakly, chest aching, scratching her wrist raw and bleeding. Anya duct tapes oven mitts over her hands and ignores her cursing. “More than one word,” she says, rubbing cooling cream over the angry red scabs and scratchmarks. “Congratulations, you’re statistically interesting.”

“Fuck you,” Lexa mumbles, whimpering as her diaphragm seizes. “You’re just jealous yours is the average.”

Anya hitches her shirtcuff up her arm and turns her wrist to expose the scrawled word in black ink hey. “Yeah. You know it took five minutes for this to come in, right? Didn’t really even hurt. The ups of being statistically average.”

“Fuck you,” Lexa says again.

++

Lexa peels the bandage off above the kitchen sink. The screen door bangs and Anya comes in. “Hey. what’s it look like?” 

Lexa frowns. “You’re home early.”

“I know you.” Anya bumps against her, teasing. “Lemme see?”

Lexa turns her hand over. _hey there pretty girl, what’s your name?_

Anya laughs, then chokes it off. “Oh no. I’m sorry, lex.”

Lexa looks a little deflated. “I thought it was going to be unique.”

Anya tugs her into a headlock. “C’mon, pretty girl, let’s go out to eat.”

++

“I met someone today.”

Lexa flips a page in her textbook. “Congratulations.”

“Fuck you.” Anya cracks a beer and rolls the cold bottle on Lexa’s forehead, dodging her retaliatory swat. “She said ‘hey’.”

Lexa uncaps a highlighter with her teeth. “They all say hey.”

Anya flicks her ear. “Brat. How’s Costia?”

Lexa flushes. “Fine.” She buries her face in her book. “I have to study.”

“Mhmm. Didn’t get any studying done last night at hers?” Anya pokes at the fading hickey under Lexa’s ear.

Lexa sinks into the chair, shoulders hunching up. “Don’t you have a string of one night stands to continue?”

Anya tilts her head back to swig, stepping out of her shoes and padding in her socks to the fridge. “They all say ‘hey’ Lex, what can a girl do?”

++

“I met someone.”

“You always meet someone.” Lexa pinches the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, juggling her wallet and her bag as she leaves the coffee shop. “How many words between the initial _hey_ did she manage to get out before you took her to your place?”

“And why is that important?”

“It’ll help me place her on the personality to physical attractiveness grid.”

“Fuck you.” Anya hesitates, her voice dragging out in a way that pricks Lexa’s attention.

“Anya?”

“It’s been three months. Come to her housewarming with me? I’d like you to meet her.”

Lexa’s phone vibrates. _I tried the peppermint today and I’m not sure I'll ever forgive you._

“Yes,” Lexa says, absent-minded, “Fine, yes. Text me the time and date, I’ve got a class to teach and undergraduates to harangue.”

++

“You’ve met someone,” Anya says, when Lexa climbs into the car. 

“What? No!” Anya looks at her and Lexa huffs. “How’d you know?”

“You’ve got that look about you. Take the wheel for a second.” Anya lets go without another warning and Lexa yelps, grabbing for the wheel. Anya reaches into the backseat and pulls out a duffel bag. “What do you think?”

Lexa takes the bag and relinquishes the wheel. “Does she play an organized sport?”

“Look inside, brat.”

Lexa shuffles through the contents. Epson salts, lavender salts, essential oils, something that she thinks might be a loofa. “What’s this?” She lifts a white piece of folded plastic, padded heavily on one side.

“Bath pillow.”

“So you met someone, it’s serious, and you want to fuck her in the bathtub.”

Anya socks her shoulder. “She has a bad leg. Baths help with pain and…. well. Naked relaxed faintly soapy lady. It’s a gift for her and a gift for me.”

Lexa fake vomits. Her phone buzzes in the cup holder while she’s packing everything away and she doesn’t lunge for it fast enough. “Anya!”

“Heading out to a friends,” Anya reads. “What do you think of my outfit–woah. she’s cute.”

Lexa snatches her phone back, fingers tapping away. “She’s none of your business.”

“Another grad student?”

“Of a sort.” Lexa’s tone is evasive, almost hesitant. Anya narrows her eyes.

“And you met…”

Lexa huffs. “We–a wrong number, it… is a long story. Can you watch the road, please?”

“What did she say?”

Lexa clicks her phone dark. “To have a good night.”

“Don’t be an asshole, what did she say when you met? Were they the right words?”

Lexa fidgets. She looks out the window. “So, where does this girl of yours live? And what’s her name– _what the fuck_ –” Anya pulls over with a screech, horns blaring behind them. 

“You’ve never met this girl,” Anya says. 

Lexa clutches her heart. “Are you out of your mind–”

“You’ve never met this girl.”

Lexa sighs. “No, okay? So–”

“What are her words?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t asked. Can we go, please?”

Anya puts the car back into drive. “This isn’t over.”

++

Anya and Lexa tussle in the driveway, cursing each other and the length of ribbon Anya had stored in the glovebox. “Just put your fingers in the middle,” Anya snaps.

“Let me curl it first, Anya, just–”

“What kind of lesbian can’t work scissors, Lexa, honestly–”

Lexa squawks, indignant. “You’re dating a girl too!”

Knuckles on the window interrupt them. The door creaks open and they spill out from the backseat like misbehaving children. Anya thrusts the bag forward. “Happy housewarming, Raven.”

“Thank you, Anya.” They kiss, soft and sweet. “And this must be Lexa?”

“Hello,” Lexa says, extending a hand. “It’s nice to finally–oh for god’s sake, Anya.” Raven’s shirt sleeve has ridden up, and Anya’s neat sharp ink curls around the heel of her palm and down her inner wrist. _you’re blocking the door, frankenleg_.

Anya shifts on her feet. “We moved past it.”

“I had my entire life to come to terms with the fact that I’d one day date an asshole.” Raven rolls her eyes. “I did make her work for it, though.”

++

Lexa is lurking by the pool when Anya finds her. “Hey.”

“i like her,” Lexa says. “You waited this long to tell me?”

Anya shrugs. “How many times did we say fuck fate as kids? And now–”

“Costia was a long time ago. I’m fine.”

“Good. Because your girl is in the kitchen.”

Lexa chokes on her beer. “ _What_?”

“Yeah. I recognized her from the photo, asked Raven. They did undergrad together at State, lived in the same dorm hall.” Anya scratches at the back of her neck. “The world’s a funny place?”

Lexa doesn’t move. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Anya takes her by the hand and traces the letters on her skin with the tip of a nail. “It doesn’t mean nothing, either. You deserve more.”

Lexa pulls her close and kisses Anya’s forehead. “We all do.”

++

_Hi,_ Lexa thinks, the backdoor coming closer and closer. She can see a hint of blonde hair through the window. _Hello, I'm Lexa, how are you, my name is Lexa Woods, isn’t it funny to see you here, I think we might know each other, Hello Clarke, Clarke, Hi it’s me Lexa._

Clarke looks up from the sink and her mouth falls open. She opens her mouth and shuts it again, staring as Lexa ascends the steps and opens the door, the screen squeaking. Lexa coughs. “Hey,” she blurts, and curses herself, closing her eyes.

She feels a hand on her wrist, damp fingers, metallic cold from a ring on Clarke’s middle finger. There’s a _hey_ inked on the underside of her ring finger. Clarke turns her hand over and looks at Lexa’s tattoo. She smiles.

“Hey there pretty girl, what’s your name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	8. the one where they're dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Lexa and Clarke are dogs. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta-ed

Anya finds the dog by the side of the road. The backroad she takes for the explicit purpose of minimizing contact with other people and getting to work on time, and now she’s pulled over with her hazards on, cursing as she tries to distract the snarling dog with peanut butter cookies she had in the trunk while she tries to cut away the tangle of vines trapping its hind legs.

“Don’t fucking bite me,” she hisses, yanking her arm back just in time. “Eat your fucking cookies.”

By the time she’s cut away enough of the vine the dog is free, it seems to have accepted her as an ally. In fact, it licks at her fingers in search of more peanut butter, then glares when Anya doesn’t immediately produce another cookie. “Yeah,” Anya mutters, getting to her feet and dusting off her pants. “You’re welcome. Just late to work, ruined my jacket, no big deal.”

She walks back to her car, fishing her keys out of her pocket and unlocking the doors with a beep. She’s got the door open and her foot half inside the car when she realizes there’s an expectant furry face at her knee. She stops. “Go,” she says, flapping a hand at it. “Shoo.”

The dog chuffs. Its nose twitches, and, sensing the remnants of peanut butter, gathers its hind legs in preparations for a leap. “No!” Anya yelps, but the dog has already jumped, scrabbling on her seats as it wiggles into the backseat.

Anya leans in, pointing a stern finger. “No. Bad dog. Out! Go home.”

The dog looks straight at her, then yawns, exposing its fangs and lolling tongue.

“I could have left you,” Anya tells it. “You’re just lucky the roadwork slowed traffic down. Now shoo.”

Maintaining full eye contact, the dog leans down and rips a mouthful of foam out of Anya’s backseat. It shreds the upholstery between his teeth and swallows, then curls up with a content sigh, nose on muddy paws.

“I hate you,” Anya says.

++

Anya walks into the vet’s office. “I need a leash,” she says to the first person she meets. “Dr… Reyes.” She pauses. “Dog leash,” she amends. “Also, a collar.”

“I am… concerned,” Dr. Reyes says, reaching under the counter and sliding the requested items over to Anya’s waiting hands.

“Stand by,” Anya says, and goes out to the car. Ten minutes of cursing and a ripped sleeve later, she’s hauling the dog in with two hands, one around the collar and one gripping its scruff.

“Jesus Christ,” Dr. Reyes says, and ushers them quickly into an exam room.

“Healthy,” she declares, fifteen tense moments later. “Also, may not be a dog.”

“What?” Anya doubletakes. She peers at the dog. “It’s definitely not a cat.”

“She,” Dr. Reyes emphasizes, “looks to be at least one quarter coyote.”

The dog(?) yawns again.

“One half coyote,” Dr. Reyes amends. “I’m legally obligated to inform you that you cannot own a coyote dog hybrid.”

“Are you legally obligated to inform any agencies that I brought her in?”

Dr. Reyes sighs. “You live with any other pets? Small kids?”

“No.”

“Got a yard?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Reyes passes over a clipboard. “Do not go to dog parks. Do call any of these–” she produces a few pamphlets “private dog trainers.”

Anya frowns at the forms. “Any ideas for dog names?”

“Princess,” Dr. Reyes says, dry.

“I found her on Alexandria Road,” Anya offers, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Road is a good name.”

“Oh my god,” Dr. Reyes says, snatching the clipboard back and clicking a pen. “Lexa. One syllable, sounds tough. Now go pay way too much to the receptionist while I take your illegal canine to the back for her shots.”

++

Lexa likes to sleep tucked up against Anya’s side, heavy head on Anya’s hip. Then she turns sideways until Anya wakes up in the middle of the fucking night half pushed off her own fucking mattress. She likes to aggressively chase squirrels around Anya’s yard, rip up the neighbor’s flowerbeds while Anya is trying to sneak a late night cigarette during Lexa’s last pee break before bed, and dig holes down to the foundation that require multiple trips to the hardware store for potting soil to fill in.

She’s a good jogging partner, Anya thinks. And it’s funny to see how her eyes glint in the porchlight and her nose wrinkles up when she scares the shit out of delivery men. She keeps waiting to wake up to a ravaged throat or some such nonsense, but Lexa seems to favour sleeping in sunbeams and destroying every single toy Anya buys her in fifteen minutes or less, no matter how indestructible the label claims it is.

++

Anya wakes up to a cold nose in her ear. She cracks open an eye, fumbling at her nightstand for her phone to check the time. “Fuck off,” she groans at Lexa. “You know I’ve got another half hour.”

Lexa yips, right in Anya’s ear. Her teeth gently close around Anya’s wrist and tug.

“Fine,” Anya snaps, flinging back her blanket. “God, you’re a lotta work.”

Lexa leaps from the bed, landing lightly on the floor, and starts scratching at the bedroom door. “Quit it!!” Anya says, slapping at her snout with two fingers. “I’m going, Christ.”

She hauls open the back door and Lexa is out like a shot. Anya yawns, propping an arm up on the doorjam and shivering in the early morning chill. Then she hears a bark in her yard. She blinks. Lexa doesn’t bark. She’s never barked. She growls, she yips, sometimes she howls along with sirens and at her food barrel when Anya is late feeding her. Anya steps out onto the porch, the wood cold on her bare feet.

Lexa yips at her, standing near the big tree in the corner. She darts forward, tail high waving and the hair standing up in a long ridge down her bag, and then back to the tree. There’s another weak bark from behind its trunk.

“Fuck,” Anya mutters, and starts into her lawn, barefoot and shivering. She peers behind the tree, Lexa’s paws scratching in the dirt at her side. There’s another hole under the fence, hidden where Lexa had dug it and Anya hadn’t noticed. “Bitch,” Anya tells her. Lexa yawns.

And in the hole, crawled half under the fence and stuck, is another dog, matted fur and bloody from the wooden fence, still wriggling for freedom. It makes a sad whine.

“Jesus,” Anya sighs, and starts to kick the slats out from the fence. It makes the dog yelp in pain, flail in panic. Lexa licks its nose, gives Anya a glare. “Don’t look at me like that,” Anya grunts, kicking away. “You’re the one with a boyfriend trying to break into your yard.”

She picks up the dog, staggering under its weight. “A girlfriend,” she corrects, shoving it into the backseat. Lexa hops up beside the new dog, resting her nose on the dog’s neck and licking at her ear.

++

“Oh no,” Dr. Reyes says, when she sees Anya come in hefting a muddied mess of a dog, Lexa trotting offleash at her side. “Tell me your coyote didn’t ravage a seeing eye dog.”

Anya follows her into an exam room and deposits the dog on the raised table with a grunt. “No. I think they’re friends.” The dog’s head lolling off the table, moves around like it’s searching for Lexa, who rises up on her hind legs to nose comfortingly at the dog’s face.

“Aw,” Dr. Reyes says. “True love.”

A power scrub, a haircut, and three stitches later and Anya’s got an anxious coyote dancing around her feet while Raven leads out a very good looking retriever from the back. “A good girl,” Raven pronounces her. “And no chip. I’ll take her to the pound after my shift.”

“Princess is still a good name,” Anya offers, and it makes Dr. Reyes laugh.

Lexa closes her teeth around Dr. Reyes’s white labcoat pocket and rips it clean off, then carries it into the corner to victioursly chow down on the treats within. “She remembers,” Dr. Reyes says dryly. “Go fork over your credit card, I might as well give her a check up while you’re here.”

++

Lexa sighs, really big, and flops over onto her side to check if Anya can see her being completely bereft, her milkbone ignored to the side.

“I’m ignoring you,” Anya says, licking her spoon clean and setting her plate aside.

Lexa roos, low and soft and guttural. She's a portrait of misery.

Anya turns the television up.

Then she sighs, lifts up the blanket, pats the mattress beside her. “C’mon, you little trash racoon. You can even have the pillow.”

Lexa, now curled into a performatively miserable ball, sighs heavily and makes big sad eyes, her tail sadly tucked under her.

++

“Hi,” Anya says, at the pound. “I’m interested in…” she checks her phone. “Clarke.”

++

“Any way I get a two for one discount?” she asks Dr. Reyes later.

“No,” Dr. Reyes says, ripping a copy of Anya’s bill off the clipboard.

“Any way I can get your number?”

Dr. Reyes snorts. “If it’ll stop you from adopting feral animals as an excuse to visit me.”

++

Anya drags another food barrel in to sit on the kitchen tiles. Lexa is chasing Clarke around the backyard, her yips interspersed with Clarke’s happy barks. She buys two dog beds, but they only ever end up using one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr @ sunspill


	9. clexa secret santa!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roomates, fluff, winter hols.

Clarke slams the door behind her. “Someone get me a fucking drink.”

Lexa looks up from the kitchen table, behind her laptop. “Excuse me?”

Clarke flushes, then grits her teeth. “Sorry. I was… not expecting you.”

Lexa flicks her eyes to the side, refusing to look directly at Clarke. “I live here.” Her tone makes it clear what she thinks of Clarke’s intelligence and existence in general. 

Clarke tries to imagine a meadow, with a gentle bubbling creek and little sprigs of wildflowers.

“If you like, I can leave a post-it on the front door, to remind you. Perhaps also on the refrigerator; it could help you remember clean up after yourself.”

Clarke imagines the meadow on fire, with Lexa tied to a tree in the middle of it. “No one actually cleans under the stove coils, that’s insane.”

“The fire alarm,” Lexa counters, “does not go off while _I’m_ cooking.”

 _I will not tell my roommate I hate her on Christmas Eve_ , Clarke chants internally. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” she rephrases, not without effort, “because I assumed you’d be with family.”

“I wouldn’t rest any weight on your assumptions.” Lexa clicks her laptop shut and stands, pushing her chair. “Based on your introductory logic marks.” She flicks an envelope across the tabletop. “Your grades.”

“What!” Clarke snatches up the paper, almost ripping it in half as she tears it open. “You read my mail! What the fuck, Lexa?”

“It was addressed to me,” Lexa says, disappearing down the hall towards her room. “If you don’t want me to read your mail, you should have arrange to have your own name on it.”

“That’s,” Clarke sputters, waving the paper at Lexa’s retreating back. “That’s not the point!”

Lexa’s door clicks shut.

++

“Well,” Raven says, two hours and two bottles of wine later. “She has a point about the mail.”

Clarke waves a dismissive hand. “But the stove thing.”

“Yeah that’s insane. Who does that?”

“Exactly,” Clarke crows. “Thank you!” They clink their coffee mugs together. “It doesn’t smell as burny when she cooks,” Clarke admits.

“Yeah,” Raven says, drunk but loyal, “fuck that bitch.”

++

Clarke raises a hand from the doorway, shivering against the biting wind, and waves goodbye as Raven clambers into her uber. She takes a few seconds to look up at the wintry sky: smells like snow, she thinks. It’ll make the sad lights blinking on the houses across the street look more festive and less pathetic. 

“You’re letting in the cold and letting out the heat.”

Clarke sighs, turning to close the front door and use it to prop herself up. “We can’t fight today, it’s Christmas.”

Lexa blinks. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Clarke holds up her phone as evidence. “It’s past midnight.”

Lexa frowns. “I’m not Christian.”

Clarke shrugs. “Didn’t it used to be some kind of pagan-y thing?”

Lexa’s half in shadow, quiet at the end of the hallway. “Did you just call me a heathen?”

“Maybe.” Clarke crosses into the kitchen, refilling her mug with the last wine bottle. “Join me?” She grins, her mood smoothed by--by alcohol and maybe holiday cheer, whatever. She’s not immune to pretty music and winter weather and blanket nests on comfy sofas. 

Lexa hesitates.

“We are roommates,” Clarke reminds her. “Even the Germans and the Brits managed to call a truce for Christmas.”

Lexa sighs. “We’re flatmates,” she corrects in a mutter, but it’s a familiar refrain and it doesn’t stop her from accepting the seat across from Clarke at the kitchen table, so Clarke’s calling it a win. 

“Flatmates sounds pretentious,” Clarke tells her, sliding a fresh mug of cheap rose across the tabletop. “...and British. Are you British?” Sometimes--mostly very early in the morning or very late at night, and most often when she’s annoyed with Clarke--there’s a faint hint of an accent curled around Lexa’s words.

The side of Lexa’s mouth quirks up. “No.”

“But you’re not going to tell me what you are.”

Lexa’s smile grows. “No.”

Clarke finds herself smiling back. “Okay.”

 

They drink quietly, Clarke’s laptop on the counter softly playing Christmas music. When Lexa is done she takes both her and Clarke’s mug to the sink to soak. “You aren’t going home for the holidays?”

“No,” Clarke says, watching the flex of Lexa’s forearms as she washes up. She doesn’t offer anything else, but Lexa doesn’t press her. “You?”

“No,” Lexa says simply. “Will Raven be over tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s got… family stuff. The day after, though, we usually get drunk and try to make something fancy out of whatever’s in the fridge.”

Lexa pauses, the tap still running. “...there’s nothing in our fridge.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, “it’s usually ketchup based. And disgusting.”

Lexa drops the mugs into the drying rack and turns the water off. “Is that a standard Christmas tradition?”

“What?” Clarke sits up. “How do you not know? Are you really pagan?”

Lexa is looking amused again, which is--nice. Usually she looks at Clarke like she’s approximately five seconds away from pulling out a ceremonial knife and performing a ritual to formally declare a blood feud. She’s got a nice smile, is all--Clarke’s never noticed it before. “Not pagan,” she hedges. “Not quite.”

“I guess there’s no ‘standard’ Christmas tradition,” Clarke says. “My dad--” her voice catches, but she pushes through. “My dad and I used to make a snowman, in the morning before all the other kids would come out. Then we’d make hot cocoa while we waited for my mom to wake up.” She’d always taken the late Christmas Eve shift, come home in the wee morning hours of Christmas morning. When she was little, her mother had pretended to be Santa on her way in, making noises little Clarke could hear from her bedroom. She coughs, jolting herself from the past. “You can do whatever, as long as you do it every year it’s Christmas tradition.”

Lexa nods, thoughtful. Then she’s smiling again, which--Clarke’s belly flips, which is how she knows she’s had too much wine for one evening. Because she’s seen Lexa smiling before--once Clarke had thrown up a grape to catch in her mouth and accidentally had it land in her eye--and she’s never felt this way about it before now. She takes one of the freshly washed mug out of the rack and shakes out the excess water, then holds out a hand for the wine bottle.

Puzzled, Clarke hands it over. Their fingers brush over the cheap label, and then Lexa is pouring the last few glugs into the coffee mug. She rests it on the counter, then looks over her shoulder at Clarke, oddly playful. “For Santa,” she says, and winks.

It punches all the words out of Clarke and she splutters for a second, smiling helplessly. “Happy Christmas, Lexa.”

Lexa’s smile grows, showing off straight white teeth and the bow of her lips. “Not British,” she reminds her. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

++

Clarke sleeps in--sleeps the wine headache off, wakes up with absolutely no schoolwork to do and rolls over to snuggle into her duvet and go back to sleep for a few more hours. She can hear Lexa moving around in the room across the hall, the creak of her door and her quiet footsteps down towards the kitchen and living room. Clarke stretches, yawns. Shuffles out of her room in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants that she has to hold up with one hand. She winces at the state of her hair in the mirror, yanks the hood up over it after she brushes her teeth. 

“Clarke.”

Clarke screams, levitating into the air and banging her elbow against the wall on her way down. “Jesus Christ, Lexa! Make a little noise next time.”

“Something came for you in the mail.”

Clarke freezes. “Which you know… because you opened it, you nosy bitch?” Her voice rises at the end, achingly hopeful.

Lexa looks almost sympathetic. “It has your name on it.”

 

Clarke looks down at the envelope, legs folded up underneath her on the sofa and blanket across her lap. She makes a disgruntled noise. Lexa is eating a cup of noodles next to the fridge, watching her. “I don’t think it’s a bomb.”

Clarke stares at her. “What?”

Lexa gestures to one ear with her disposable chopsticks. “No ticking.”

Clarke squints. “Is this you joking? You’re bad at it, leave it to funnier people.”

Lexa shrugs a shoulder. “I’m the only one here.”

 _Clarke Griffin_ The label says, in her mother’s block lettering. “Such a power play,” Clarke mutters, glaring. “No call, no note. Just letting me know she knew where I was this whole time.”

“There could be a note,” Lexa points out. “Inside.”

Clarke stands decisively, letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I don’t care. I’m throwing it away. Fuck her.” She crosses to the kitchen sink, yanking the cabinet open to toss it into the trash can inside.

“It could be cash,” Lexa says offhandedly.

Clarke stops mid-motion.

++

“This,” Clarke says, surveying their haul. “ _This_ is America, Lexa.”

Lexa slurps at her McFlurry. “I see.”

Clarke pops open a box of chicken nuggets and selects a dipping sauce from the small pile in the cup holder between the seats. “Open on Christmas Day. Incredible.”

“There is no ethical consumption under capitalism,” Lexa says, rather ominously. 

Clarke waves a chicken nugget under her nose. “Can I interest you in honey barbeque?”

“Yes,” Lexa agrees, and opens her mouth. Clarke feeds her, then blushes, inexplicably, and folds her hands in her lap for an awkward second before coughing and reaching for the supersized coke wedged into the passenger door pocket. 

She sips, willing the heat and pinkness in her cheeks away, and looks out the window to distract herself. “Hey. This isn’t the way home.”

“It is not.” 

“Are… you kidnapping me?”

Lexa makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m sorry you don’t get along with your mother.”

Clarke shrugs. “Whatever. It’s nothing new.”

“Even so.”

Clarke blows bubbles into her coke. “I’m sorry you… aren’t with loved ones this Christmas.”

“Thank you,” Lexa says politely, and does not share any further.

“You’re kind of hard to get to know.”

“Yes,” Lexa agrees, and smiles when Clarke laughs.

++

“Okay,” Clarke says, unbuckling her seatbelt to lean back and prop her feet on the dash. “This is cool.”

Lexa is halfway through a large fries, salt and grease on her long fingers. “I know.”

Clarke looks out the windshield, the elaborate decorations lit up against the dark night sky. There’s a willow tree that’s kept some of its leaves, a string of decorations on every branch, a waterfall of white light. “How’d you know about this street, anyway?”

“Eh,” Lexa evades, and licks from her wrist to the tip of her thumb. 

“You’re hitting on me,” Clarke accuses. “With the pretty lights and your non-smoking car and the fast food msg and your fingers.”

Lexa frowns slightly. “Your car smokes?”

“Just a little, when I go over twenty--don’t change the subject. You’re hitting on me!”

“Yes,” Lexa agrees. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Clarke says, not without a little grumpiness. “But a heads up would have been nice. I thought we hated each other.”

Lexa leans over the gap between their seats. She turns the engine off and everything goes quiet. “I don’t hate you.”

Clarke’s voice comes out soft, even as she leans in closer; the windows starting to fog up, the little bit of honey at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. “It’ll get cold without the heat on.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Lexa says, and closes the distance between them.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


End file.
